


Bros Only

by smellyleaf



Category: Olympics RPF, RPF - Fandom, Swimming RPF
Genre: M/M, Real person fiction; Real person slash;, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-14 06:04:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4553535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smellyleaf/pseuds/smellyleaf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://lyrics-soul.livejournal.com/10880.html?thread=244864#t244864">this prompt</a> by Anon @XXX : <i>"I read something about Michael going on a "bros only" trip to the Maldives. "Bros only" is code for "Honeymoon with Ryan" . </i> Tried to research this extensively!! SO hopefully it's decent! The resort Michael gets is @ Soneva Fushi in the Maldives. Go to <a href="http://www.soneva.com/soneva-fushi/">their website</a> for great pics of what I'm talking about!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bros Only

**Author's Note:**

> **[THIS WORK WAS IMPORTED FROM SMELLYFIC.LIVEJOURNAL.COM]**

"Okay," Michael says, shouldering two duffel bags at once over his broad shoulder, "Remind me again why you had to pack so much shit."

Ryan is carrying another duffel, as well as a backpack, and dragging along a rolling suitcase, "Remind me again why I even agreed to make this trip."

The plane trip was certainly wearing, with two stops and nothing so much as a salted peanut in sight. Michael's own stomach is pinching irritably, and he's sure Ryan's is doing the same.

"You won't be complaining like this when you're looking at all that water."

The Malé International Airport is breathtaking enough all on its own, and Michael pauses to admire the view as he passes by the panels of glass in the main lobby. Everything is an island on the Maldives, of course, and he stops dead in his tracks to admire all that blue expanse of nothing.

Ryan stops behind him, never looking out, "C'mon. Never seen water before?" Then he resumes walking, leaving Michael to rush after.

A thin, tall asian man holding a sign reading 'PHELPS/LOKTEE' was standing right outside the airport entrance, glancing around. When Ryan caught sight of him, he frowned.

"Lok-tee. How come they can spell Phelps but they can't spell Lochte?" The expression on his face raises up images of gold medals and podiums.

Michael shrugs one shoulder, "It was my name on the check. I bet they can spell five million American dollars, too."

Ryan turns to look at him with an expression best described as pure horror, "Five million dollars? Five million dollars for a week of staring at the water and sticking our feet in the sand? Are you effing kidding me right now?!"

The resort greeter has caught sight of them by this point, but is looking slightly awkward to be present for their argument. Dropping his sign down as though he thinks that might be the problem, he smiles gratifyingly, "Ah, Mr. Phelps and Mr. Loktee, yes? Call me Mr. Friday. I'm so pleased to be the first person to welcome you to our beautiful island. May your stay here leave you many happy memories!"

"Yeah, and it damn well better for five million dollars!" Ryan turns on the smiling greeter as though personally affronted by his statement, "Is the sand here made of fucking diamonds, Mr. Friday?!"

"Ryan," Michael hisses, glancing around, "We're trying not to get noticed here, remember? Could you quiet down?"

"Trying not to get noticed, he says!" Ryan laughs humorlessly, "How exactly is renting a five million dollar resort room laying low? Please, entertain me with your answer."

"Excuse me, Mr. Phelps, but we are on a tight schedule if you wish to arrive in time for dinner." The greeter bowed his head apologetically, gesturing that he needed to lead them a ways around the corner.

"Lead the way." Michael seizes Ryan firmly by the elbow and yanks him along as well, muttering in his ear, "You hear that? If you don't shut up, we'll miss dinner. So shut the fuck up."

Effectively cowed, Ryan yanks his arm free and follows the pair of them around the corner and across the flat dirt of the landing strip to a small seaplane painted red and white.

Ryan groans, "Another plane?"

The greeter smiles at him, "Yes, sir. Only thirty minutes, sir, and the view is breathtaking. Only one stop: at the Soneva Fushi International Airport."

Ryan's curiosity is peaked, "Is it a big airport?"

The greeter chuckles, "No, sir, just a little floating jetty we land the taxi planes on. The name is funny, yes?. All aboard, please, and let me get your luggage."

The plane is quite small, and Michael has a difficult time squeezing himself down into the seat. The pilot gives him a headset, and Ryan too, then explains the few safety procedures while there baggage is piled in the back. Then the greeter takes the co-pilot's seat and they prepare for take-off.

At first, Ryan looks more than a little pre-disposed towards a bad time. But when they reach their maximum altitude and the pilot starts giving them a tour of all the different coral reefs, Ryan breaks down and looks out the window.

And yes, the view is indeed breathtaking. Literally. The Maldives aren't too large, so the flight only takes about a half hour. Then the pilot announces their final descent towards Soneva Fushi International Airport, and Michael looks over at Ryan to catch his reaction.

It looks like a green tear in the blue satin of the ocean, maybe a living teardrop. Ryan's eyes gleam in the gloom of the plane, and then they're making the slow revolutions downwards.

When they hand their headsets back and pile out of the seaplane, they find more staff waiting to take their luggage ahead of them. Ryan glances around at the surrounding beach with a frown.

"Beautiful, yes. But five million dollars beautiful? No."

Michael rolls his eyes, following their maid along the sandy trail leading deeper inland, "Save your little comments, Loktee. It was MY millions, not yours." He smiles to himself, "Besides, to your neverending surprise, I'm not as dumb as I look. I certainly didn't shell out the bucks for a lean-to on the beach, I know that."

Ryan rubs his stomach, "Well, let's hope you get your money's worth out the food, because I could eat a horse right now."

The walk is fairly short, a winding path through green jungle that finally comes out, all of a sudden, at the front entrance of what appears to be, at first glance, a very large single-room bungalow at the end of a set of natural earth steps leading downhill.

Ryan raises his eyebrows, but remains silent. Taking a gleaming brass key out of his pocket, Michael descends the steps and unlocks the front door.

The entrance room, it turns out, is merely a ruse. Though grand in proportion, and tastefully decorated with lightweight wooden furniture, the main attraction is the open archway leading out to a rope bridge. And at the end of that rope bridge, to Ryan's great surprise, was what could only be confusingly described as a beach hut mansion.

Michael smiles at his dumbfounded expression, "One master bedroom, two guest rooms, a study, a kitchen, a library, a sauna, a steam room, a wine cellar, two outdoor balconies upstairs, an eight foot connecting pool between the rooms downstairs. . ."

Ryan turns to look at him, "Connecting pool?"

"Yeah. Like, swimming from room to room." He smiles, stepping past Ryan and out onto the rope bridge to look down on the first story, "Nice, huh?"

Ryan joins him, looking down, "I outta push you right off this motherfucker."

"Why?" Michael asks.

"Because SECRETS!" Ryan says accusingly, "You acted like this was just some regular beach retreat and now I'm standing on a five million dollar rope bridge!"

"The five million was for the VILLA, not just the rope bridge. And your point is?"

"My point is, what is going on?" He fixes Michael with a shrewd stare.

"Nothing's going on. I just wanted to take a kickass vacation." He shrugs, "What better choice than a swimming-themed resort?" Taking Ryan's elbow, he pulls him along, "C'mon, let's check it out."

The house is set on a cliff, with the first story extending almost to the shoreline, and the top story placed just so to compliment it, and to give the best possible view of all that water. Each room is more lush than the last, and everything has that island feel to it; outdoor showers, open-air layout with lots of gauzy curtains and ceiling fans. Ryan is charmed by it, Michael can tell, and it all culminates in the master bedroom. Placed strategically at the peak of the house, a set of narrow stairs leads up to the open, wrap-around balcony. In the center, surrounded by four pillars and light hanging curtains, is the bed.

Ryan dares to walk out to the edge of the balcony, which has no railing, and looks down, "Awesome."

Michael figues that is the highest of compliments, coming from him.

\- - -

After studying the menu for the longest time, Michael finally folds it, daring to make eye contact with his eager waiter.

"Um, I'll have the, um, grilled chicken breast? With braised. . . aubergine? And. . . seeni sambol?"

Ryan hides a laugh behind his menu at Michael's pronunciation. After a moment of consideration, he orders as well, "Uh, the giant prawns in vanilla brown butter and herbs, please."

Michael fixes him with an icy stare, "Whatever, you picked something easy."

The waiter takes their menus and retreats, leaving them to their privacy. The restaurant is called Fresh in The Garden, and the garden in question is below them. Each cozy booth rings around the edges of the wall-less restaurant, and Michael smiles to see Ryan leaning over the railing to watch the workers picking herbs and vegetables.

"Good thing we're not scared of heights. I wonder if anybody ever falls over."

Unable to think of a witty reply, Michael simply shrugs, running the pad of his thumb around the rim of his wine glass once, for luck, before taking a large swallow.

The food is more than exquisite, and afterwards, they take a walk along the beach to Bar(a)Bara, the seaside bar. The bar itself is pretty small, but the main attractions are the flat, cushioned hammocks strung right out over the water. Michael sinks down onto one of these, making room for Ryan, and orders the first of many shots. Ryan orders another glass of wine.

They watch the sunset together, but in a stiff silence, drinking their drinks down and ordering doubles. Ryan is tense, pulling a curl out from the top of his head and releasing it to bounce, over and over again. He keeps the hand holding his wine glass in motion, swirling the dregs of the drink around and around as he stares out at the sea. It's not exactly what Michael imagined when he first thought of the two of them together in the Maldives.

Bending his knees up to rest his forearms on them, Ryan frowns, "So would you say that this is a five million dollar sunset, Phelps?"

Michael is nervous, and his palms are sweating. Wiping them on the sides of his pants, he glances away, "No. I wouldn't, actually."

They don't speak for a minute, mostly because Ryan apparently has no response for that.

"Actually," Michael continues, "I think it looks the exact same as the one in Athens, and the one in Beijing, and the one in London. Even the one at home in Baltimore and all the way down in Gainesville." Finally he turns to face Ryan, cocking his head to one side to illustrate the irony of it, "But I didn't pay five million dollars for the sunset, or the villa, or the beach views."

"Oh?" Ryan says, because he doesn't know what else to say.

"No, I paid the five million dollars. . ." He shakes his head, "Like an idiot, I paid the five million dollars because I thought that when we got here. .  . I guess I thought. . . I guess I actually thought that when I saw you like this, that things would be different."

"Different?" Ryan freezes, "What do you mean. . .? Different?"

"Different. That I would see how. . . stupid I've been."

Ryan waits for him to continue, but by the time he realizes that Michael is done talking, it's too late for him to bring the subject back up. So he lets it drop with an awkward silence, and they stare out at the setting sun until it's dark and the bar is closing.

\- - -

Ryan wakes up with a salty breeze blowing softly through his hair and a pounding headache from too much fine wine.

He sits straight up in bed and stares out the adjacent window, but his eyes aren't on the view. No, instead he finds himself looking out across the slope of the upper story, studying the swaying curtains surrounding the master bedroom.

He takes a moment to study all that vastness, and then he gets out of bed and dresses, throwing on some white swim trunks and a blue polo shirt.

He takes the narrow stairs two at a time, bursting into the kitchen in a fit of energy and heading straight for the fridge. Yanking on the bamboo handle, he swings it open and stares.

It's empty.

"Good, you're awake."

Spinning around, Ryan catches sight of Michael just as he's stepping into the room. He looks good, khaki shorts and a white tee.

"Michael, there's no food in this fridge."

"Oh?" Michael comes closer to peer over Ryan's shoulder, "I guess I forgot to order some. Call the office and get a Mr. Friday to bring it over."

"Doesn't that guy ever go on break?"

Michael laughs, surprised, "No, they're all called that. It's just a cutesy way to have room service, I guess." Stepping back, he closes the door to the fridge for Ryan, "C'mon, take a bike ride with me."

\- - -

They do exactly that, taking the long way around the island so that by the time they're standing on their own little piece of beach down the hill, Ryan has a stich in his side and his deodorant isn't working as good as that morning.

Looking up the hill at their massive villa, he can only grumble, "I'm still starving."

"I know."

"And I'm smelly."

"No you're not."

Shedding his damp Polo in the sand, Ryan kicks off his shoes and starts walking towards the water, "Remind me again why we paid five mil for this?"

"WE didn't pay shit. I paid, and you just showed up to the airport with a million bags. I don't see how a person who vacations for free can complain."

"Like this: This trip sucks already and I want a fucking pizza."

Whipping out his phone, Michael starts to dial, "Alright, I'll order us one made."

Ryan slaps the phone out of his hand. And then there is silence, and they both just stare at the expensive phone laying in the sand.

"Fuck you." Michael picks up the phone and pockets it, "I mean, FUCK YOU. I bring you here, to the most beautiful fucking place on the planet, and you're nothing but an ungrateful piece of shit the whole time!"

"I'M ungrateful?! What about you?!" Then he pauses, "Well, okay, you're not ungrateful. But you ARE pissing me the fuck off, Phelps!"

"How exactly am I doing anything wrong?"

Ryan stomps his foot in the sand, "That's the fucking problem! You're doing everything right and I'm ON TO YOU. So spill the fucking beans already!"

Another beat of silence. Michael frowns, "You're ruining it."

"I don't care. I'll ruin this whole fucking trip. Watch me."

It's a battle of wills as they stare each other down, both of them red-faced and pissed off. Then Michael drops to one knee.

"Fine, marry me you fucking dipshit."  
  



End file.
